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Mom, Thanks for My Wife

When I say that my mom was an Auschwitz survivor, people go into “Wow” mode. But while it may surprise you, I don’t believe that’s an excuse for subsequent behavior. You see, I grew up knowing dozens of Holocaust survivors. And some were very resilient and productive; others not. The Holocaust, as absolutely horrific as it was, seemed to only significantly affect only some survivors’ subsequent lives.

Of course, some of that is simply constitutional: Some people have more internal resources. But that wasn’t my mom’s problem. She was well-adjusted, healthy, not to mention beautiful. Let's just say she wasn't the hardest working person.

In our Bronx and then Queens apartment, she spent lots of time hanging out: playing cards, going clothes shopping, etc., and because my sister and I were pretty easy kids, she didn’t need to (nor did) spend much time with us—except when, God forbid, I’d come home ten minutes late for dinner, thereby delaying her broiled meat’s timing and, angry, she whipped me. I frequently wore welts.

She never chose to work outside the home, never contributing a dime to the family despite my father working seven, yes seven, days a week, 12 hours a day, taking a bus, two trains, plus a six block walk—rain, shine, or snow—to work in a crummy store in one of Brooklyn’s most dangerous neighborhoods, in a tiny clothing store that always smelled of stale blood from the live-chicken market next door merged with the smell of chicharones (deep-fried pork intestines) from the deli on the other side.

Yet my dad never complained. Although he never made much money, he just kept buying her the jewelry and fur coats she insisted she deserved—three fur coats to be precise. Nor did he, also a Holocaust survivor, ever complain about it. One day, I asked him why. He stiffened, which he rarely did, and said, “Martin, the Nazis took five years from my life. I won’t give them one minute more. Martin, never look back, always take the next step forward.”

That lesson has been my life’s most important—helping me to avoid playing victim—for example, blaming my issues on my mother having frequently whipped me. That lesson also has helped me motivate my clients who had been using decades-old mistreatment to justify current inertia or bad behavior.

The main lesson I learned from my mom was equally vivid. Seeing the way she chose to live her life motivated me to marry the opposite kind of person. My wife Barbara is one of the nation’s most respected school superintendents, a great wife and mom, and treats me with the respect I only wish my mom had shown my dad. Thanks, mom, for being a role model.

Although mine was never outside being social... she liked to stay home and keep every details under control, which means we were in her way.

Sometimes, I mention it to my friends. Some say: you're an adult, you can't blame your situation on your mom your entire life. Eh, just because I don't have contact doesn't mean I'm angry with her. I just don't have time to spend being criticized for how I breathe, if I talked to much, not enough or both, etc. Plus I am a women and she didn't want a girl... no matter what I do, I can never change that one.

If you tell someone my mom didn't love me, they think you're complaining, exaggerating, etc. It doesn't matter how matter of fact your tone is. To others, it always seem like the most awful thing. Yet, is exists and it is not the end of the world. The hard part is when you want it to be different than what it is. Then you hit the wall of deception over and over again.

I think mom has help make me very strong and independent. It's because of her that I have the stamina and the focus necessary to succeed, and I don't mean just in the business sense, but also on the personal side. Her rules didn't make sense, so I had to develop my own. I have a pretty good sense of who I am and of where my intrinsic motivations lie. When bad luck happens, I can find my own way out of the dark and into the light, in a pretty short period of time.

I found it vital to honestly assess and assimilate my extremely grim childhood experiences (recounted in my website "seeking bedrock") but to realize that using them for an excuse would simply be stupid, because I'd be where I was stuck, with a good excuse! But I am not stupid. So.

Is the common admonition not to "blame" our parents for our problems really an admonition not to use their effect on us as an excuse not to do something about it? After all, it is inarguable that our parents profoundly shape us, their kids, and I've never quite understood what "blame" in this context meant.